


Prathama

by avani, weaslayyy



Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaslayyy/pseuds/weaslayyy
Summary: baahu, son of karikala kattapa nadar, meets the yuvarani devasena of kuntala





	1. PROLOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a tale of two queens

Once upon a time, there lived two queens: both beautiful, both wise, both not long for this world.

Which shall you hear about first? The one whose life was by far the sweeter? Very well, then. Settle down by the fire and hear of the Queen who creeps to her children’s nursery by moonlight to bid them good-night before she seeks her own bed.

They wake, of course; both light sleepers, brother and sister reach for their mother, forbidding her to leave them. Chuckling, she tries to disentangle herself from their grasping arms—with only a little less strength than she might have months ago—and asks what the price of her freedom will be.

The little girl gurgles with laughter. “A story, a story!” she demands, beating her tiny fists against the bed-clothes.

“Very well, then.” The Queen, face downcast in mock defeat, slides to sit on the corner of her daughter’s bed. “Once there lived a princess of Kuntala.”

Her son makes a face. “Not a prince?”

“There was a prince, as well,” replies his mother, “but one not born of Kuntala. Instead his life began many kingdoms away, in a land of cold hearts and closed minds.

“He was born to an ill fortune, with a father who fell in battle not long before his son’s birth and a mother who joined her husband in death not long afterwards. An infant has few to speak in his defense, and so it was hardly surprising that he was thrown away, to be raised and fostered in a forest tribe rather than a royal house. But their love was not enough to overcome the injustice with which he had been treated, and so he took to wandering--and one day, his journeys brought him to Kuntala .”

At the mention of their homeland, both children cheer. Their mother smiles and surreptitiously pauses to catch her breath before she continues.

“His misfortune did not leave him even in our motherland. While his forbearance and graciousness won him the admiration of the King and his daughter, who were both off hunting with the rest of the Court, he crossed the Prime Minister, who determined that death was the only fitting punishment for such a man. So he sent our poor prince to deliver a letter to the capital that demanded that the minister who was managing affairs in the King’s absence execute him at once.”

“I’m not sure this is a very happy story,” remarks her son, and his sister shushes him before voicing her own complaint.

“You said this was about a princess!”

“It is,” says her mother. “The King had a daughter, clever and brave, and it seemed to her that a man of such worth did not deserve to meet whatever fate the Prime Minister must have selected for him. She knew not what her Minister would have planned, but she knew enough to guess it would be untowards. So she rode behind the young man she’d met and given her heart to and crept upon him when he was asleep. She took the message from his robes and discovered its grisly contents.”

Her daughter grins. “Did she kill the Prime Minister in revenge?” She pantomimes the thrust of a sword. “Teach him what happens to those who trifled with those she loved!”

“She could not,” says the queen. “Not yet. She had had her doubts about the minister for years, and she could best serve her people by silence until she had collected all the evidence she needed to ruin him. But that did not mean she would abandon the man she loved; with a stroke of her pen, she altered his fate. Instead of poison, as the message had read, he was now to be given Vishaya, which was her name.”

“That was clever,” says her son, nodding in approval.

“The princess, along with her husband, eventually uncovered enough evidence to have the Prime Minister dismissed from his post and executed. And in time, they came to take the throne and be known as the greatest rulers Kuntala has ever had, blessed by the mighty Arjuna and Krishna themselves.” The queen pauses to catch her breath again and looks at her children expectantly.

Her daughter only looks disappointed. “That’s all?”

“Isn’t that enough?” asks the queen.

“The princess didn’t do _anything_. She just found a man she liked and got married.”

“She recognized the worth of a man who others had found wanting,” corrects her mother, “and raised him to the throne where he could do the most good. I should be proud if you did no less, Devasena.”

Her daughter considers. “All right,” she says at last. “Then I will. But I don’t see why how that doesn’t mean I can’t punish the wicked and kill evildoers, too.”

The queen laughs, a glorious sound, before it fades into a cough that she smothers with the edge of her _sari_. “I should want no less,” she says when she is able, and kisses both her children. “Now sleep at last before I become cross with you,” she warns, and tucks them into their beds.

Once the door to the nursery is closed behind her, however, she frowns, and raises the drape of her _sari_ to investigate the smear of blood that has bloomed there. She does not know it, any more than her children do, but this will be the final tale she ever spins for them; they will be seperated from her, first by quarantine, and then by death.

They will remember her last story forever.

*  
And what, you ask, of the second queen?

Ah, that’s a sadder story, and a shorter one, too, and one we’ll have to travel back several years to explain.

She had two children, too, both fine boys she had defended in the midst of Court only hours previous. They had both had equal right to the throne of Mahishmati, she decreed, and both had equal right to her heart. She proved this by watching their nurses put them to sleep in their cradles with equal care, by placing a hand on both their tiny heads before leaving them in favor for the endless matters of state she must supervise.

That was when the assassins struck.

She did not expect them, not so close to the earlier attempt on her life, and so she was caught alone and unprepared. But by no means could she be considered helpless, however; she took the lives of five men while suffering wounds of her own before looking up to see her husband before her.

It was the only time in her life she had been grateful to lay eyes on him.

“There you are!” she said. “Do you not see what has happened here in the halls of our own house? ”

“Oh yes,” he replied, slowly approaching to place his arms around her in a parody of comfort. “An outrage, indeed.”

For the first time she could recall, she accepted his embrace, and as she did, she felt his fingers, nimble and quick for once, tug free the dagger tucked into the folds of her sari. It was a sharp blade, the only remembrance of her ancestral home she had brought with her to her royal in-laws, and still wet with the blood of her assailants; it should not have been a surprise that it found its mark in her abdomen, but nonetheless--

“What--”

“I will not,” he offered by way of explanation, “allow my son to share his rightful place with my brother’s brat. Whoever stands in the way of my son’s future must die, even should it be you.”

The queen spat in his face with her dying breath.

“Goodbye, Sivagami,” said her husband, not without remorse, and closed her eyes. That concession to sentiment complete, he let her body rest on the ground. There was work to be done: he must be found as the grieving spouse, half-mad with the shock of having come upon his wife’s corpse. Then there was the task of convincing the council that he was the man to serve as regent until his son could be crowned, his nephew tragically having been murdered in the same attack that stole the life of his wife. And after that he would have to dispose of the brat, to the streets, perhaps, or the wilderness, or to the mercy of the sword--

His mind rebelled at infanticide. Yet how else was he to ensure the boy would not return inconveniently?

Kattappa, he decided. He would take him to Kattappa. Let the dog decide what to do with the brat; Bijjaladeva wanted nothing more to do with either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the first ever longfic that avani and I plan on actually finishing!! this is obviously an au but one that we have been planning.... at least for 6 months if not more in our many thousands of messages. at some point we figured that if neither one of us was going to actually write this alone we might as well do it together! 
> 
> in terms of logistics it should be pretty easy to tell who wrote what (the good chapters are probably the one's written by avani lol) but beyond that we figured it was easiest to divide it by POV. avani writes devasena and i (maya) write baahu. the only chapter that doesn't follow that is this prologue, which avani wrote. 
> 
> if you like what you're seeing comment below and tell us your thoughts!  
> *  
> Avani: Oh hush, Maya, you wrote all the chapters I like best--I can't wait for you guys to get to read them too, every one of them is brilliant :D
> 
> Otherwise, since it's not an Avani story without some rambling about research: Devasena's mother's story is a reworking of the tale of [Chandrahasa](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chandrahasa) from the _Mahabharata_. Interestingly, this means that Kuntala is at least as "real" as Mahishmati is, considering both seem to have come from the same basic source. Of course, there are liberties taken with the story here, as much for plot purposes as for simplifying some of the weirder elements, but it should hopefully stand on its own! (Also, though I'm sure it's obvious, _vish_ in Sanskrit is "poison," explaining how the Princess was able to pull off her deception.)


	2. BAAHU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baahu gains a new name alongside a new fear that his father has lost his mind. (baahu and kattapa walk to kuntala)

“You there, standing still like palm trees! Aren’t you ashamed to hide behind women?”

Baahu blinks, noticing for the first time the group of women in front of him that he had ignored in favor of memorizing the exact curve of the princess’s lips. The princess is lovely when upset, but he doesn’t see the need to test her mettle at the sword, not after he’s seen her skills for himself. He shakes his head, glancing only once to his father beside him before he speaks.

“Past those trees, there was a group of men, perhaps twenty-five or so.” The princess raises an eyebrow, and Baahu, taciturn after a life amongst men who use hand signals more than words is unsure what confuses her. She glares, the weight of her fury so powerful that Baahu barely resists the urge to take a step backward.

Baahu’s father shakes his head, stepping forward quickly only to surreptitiously trod on Baahu’s foot as he speaks. “They are now dead, your majesty. We killed them.”

The princess’ face clears, and Baahu notes absently that her beauty, radiant in fury is even more so when satisfied. He wonders what she might look like if she laughed.

“Then I must thank you,” she says, and both Baahu and his father bow their heads in acknowledgment. “What are your names, and where are you from?”

Baahu opens his mouth to tell her the truth, that both he and his father number two of the soldier-slaves of Mahishmati but he is too late. His father, still one step in front speaks, and for the first time in Baahu’s life, he hears his father tell a lie.

“We are nobodies,” his father begins which in of itself is perhaps true enough. “We have been forced to leave our home and we wander until we may find our way back. This is my son.” He pauses, shifting minutely before speaking again. “Amarendra.”

Baahu, who has never heard of an Amarendra in his life, would choke on his own spittle if the sight of the princess ahead had not already dried his mouth. The princess, who perhaps does not see his widened eyes, seems content with his father’s answer and nods.

“If you would like, you may shelter inside our palace -- men who can together take twenty-five Pindari soldiers are rare enough in these parts and it would be our honor to host you during your time of need.”

No one, in Baahu’s twenty-five years of existence, has ever thought to consider his presence an honor. The sudden warmth that fills his being is so confusing that he manages to miss his father’s acceptance of the Kuntalan proposal and only realizes that they have begun walking when his father points out the Vindhya mountains, visible once the entourage has cleared the forest altogether.

“What are we doing?” His whisper is louder than he meant it to be and Baahu winces slightly before leaning closer towards his father, checking to make sure no one has overheard.

“You like her,” is all his father will say and Baahu resists the urge to scoff. His father until five minutes prior has always been direct, employing an economy of words that delivered meaning without risk of mistranslation. Baahu thinks longingly of the day before when they were roasting birds over an open flame and talk was limited to the new chariots the Kalakeyan victory would purchase.

“Who wouldn't,” Baahu responds finally because _he_ at least will not debase himself by deceiving the man who raised him. “You saw her with a sword.”

Baahu’s father smiles as if this response was a hard-earned victory rather than a statement of the blindingly obvious. The Kuntalan princess is exquisite, with a battle form that rivals Baahu himself. Better even, because Baahu knows that he has a tendency to rely on his strength in the thick of battle and the Princess was far smaller than her five simultaneous opponents.

“Then you know what we’re doing.”

Baahu sighs. “No, I do not.”

“You are being obtuse,” his father says and Baahu’s eyes widen in offense. “I know we’ve already spoken about the process of reproduction.”

The world halts for a moment and restarts, two seconds too fast. Baahu finds himself face first in the dirt. It has been years since he last lost his balance.

“Amarendra,” he hears a gentle, lilting tone from two chariots ahead. He resists the urge to compare the princess to a nightingale. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” Baahu’s father replies before Baahu can confess to not having a clue who Amarendra is and demand a healer to check that his father does indeed remain sound of mind and body. Karikala Kattapa Nadar succumbing to early dementia in a strange land would devastate the Imperial army, not to mention promote Baahu to a position in which he would have to face the King and his sociopath of a son on a more frequent basis.

“Do you remember the time you brought me my first mango?” Baahu’s tone is slightly harsher than warranted, his question taking on the tone of a demand as he hastily rights himself and brushes the dust off his pants.

“Baahu,” his father sighs, rolling his eyes with a smile. “Encouraging you to woo a woman is not a sign of dementia.”

The Kuntalan Princess is no mere woman, Baahu thinks mutinously but chooses a different answer. “You seem to have forgotten my name, which is the first of many steps down the slippery slope of memory loss.”

“She is simply her own woman, Baahu, just as you are your own man.” His father ignores the words Baahu spoke, demonstrating an unnerving talent for hearing the words of Baahu’s mind over his mouth. “Allow yourselves both the liberty to find a path of your own choosing.”

Baahu, who has heard this same lecture since he was six years of age and encouraged to escape the life of an army slave his father was bound to by blood, stiffens. When he speaks his response is smooth, like rocks that have withstood the might of a river and still remain steadfast in their position.

“I have made my choice, father, and I choose to remain with you.” Besides, the chances of a princess falling in love with a man raised a slave and thus free only in name are slim. Traitorously, a voice in the back of Baahu’s mind wonders if the chances of victory against the Kalakeya hordes had been any greater.

“Fortunately, I have been ordered by my master to travel the country incognito alongside my son. And it would not do to violate royal etiquette by refusing an invitation offered with such good intention.”

Baahu, as all soldiers do, knows when he has been outmaneuvered and allows his shoulders to list, just enough to prove his acquiescence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we live for comments and affection!!! comment please!!!!!!


	3. DEVASENA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> devasena tries to learn about her new visitor--and learns more about herself.

Devasena draws her bow again and winces only a little at the sting of the released string against her arm. Arm guards might protect her, but none of those available in the armory--all intended for larger men--provide a comfortable fit. As a girl she attempted to convince herself that this, like the calluses on her hands from holding her sword, is part of the price she must pay for using her weapons well; now she knows it’s only stubborn pride that keeps her from admitting that she might need any assistance. And truly, most days she finds she doesn't mind the momentary burst of pain at all.

Today is not most days.

After hours of practice she manages to balance two arrows together at least somewhat reliably; but the arc of their flight travels no further than a full-grown man’s height. The straw target across the palace courtyard has worn many forms in her imagination--a demon such as those Dhananajaya himself defeated, the most unreasonable of her courtiers, a wily spy of Mahishmati who’s somehow managed to infiltrate their land--but remains unharmed regardless. Devasena allows herself an instant of disgruntlement before raising her bow again, determined to try once more.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that she’s being watched. “Don’t tell me,” she says without looking away from the center of her target, “that to do such a thing is impossible.”

“No,” says Amarendra, which, if as unforthcoming as ever, already makes him less annoying than her brother’s Prime Minister, however well-intentioned the older man may be. 

She pulls the bowstring back once more, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to fidget. Bad enough to be caught clumsy by anyone, but so much worse to be found so before a man who’d been able to defeat twenty-five warriors with only his father’s help. Devasena would like to find the respect she feels for his skills returned, rather than seem nothing more than a spoiled princess who only plays at the art of war--

She releases the arrows, which, if possible, fall even further short than before. But beside her she hears only an involuntary hiss of disappointment, as though he had the utmost faith that she would succeed. As though he means to share her dismay just as he does the hospitality of Kuntala.

Devasena turns to study him more closely. If she can’t uncover the secret of how to shoot two arrows at the same time, she’ll settle for the secrets of what thoughts he keeps in his mind. 

“Amarendra.” Not only had he been dubbed immortal, but also a namesake of the king of the gods himself. “That’s a curious name for a nobody.”

“Yes,” he agrees fervently. She bites back a laugh at how aggrieved he appears; plainly, this must be a old source of frustration in this family. “It is.” 

With a sigh, she prompts further: “Surely only the most interesting of stories could explain such a thing.”

“I don’t know.” His hands are folded behind his back; his face is shuttered. “You’ll have to ask my father. It was he who provided me with the name.”

Perhaps it’s the presence of so many around him that makes him so uncomfortable. Devasena sends a significant look towards her ladies-in-waiting, who discreetly melt away. She might have summoned them closer, however, for all the good it does. Amarendra still refuses to meet her gaze.

A change of subject, then. “Is your father nearby?” Devasena, already having noticed the man striding along in Kumar Varma’s wake earlier that day, knows the answer will be  _ no _ .

Amarendra only smiles, as though he can see through her subterfuge. Devasena’s heart skips a beat at the success of her efforts, all the more when he proceeds to favor her with a polysyllabic response. “Your brother-in-law was kind enough to offer him a tour of the palace, and my father accepted. I believe they have become friends.”

Kumar Varma might be prone to pomposity, all too easy to indulge when guiding a guest around the marvels of the Kuntala palace, but she knows the real reason behind his actions: she’d overheard him begging the old soldier for any tips he could offer to improve his fighting technique. Those rare flashes of humility that Kumar shows are why Devasena tolerates his ridiculous behavior otherwise. 

The silence between her and Amarendra stretches on, strangely comfortable. It’s only when Devasena hears the sounds of her brother and sister-in-law approaching--both lost, it seems, in a discussion about the upcoming Krishna puja the following night--that she looks down, startled. Her afternoon might allow for her to practice her archery, but that does not mean she can abandon her other duties for other indulgences. Honoring the gods for the sake of all Kuntala is only one of them.

“I should go,” she says, as though it were not obvious. “My sister-in-law will want me, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” replies Amarendra. As she turns to go, she notices him stepping forward towards the target, tall frame already stooping slightly to collect fallen arrows.

“You needn’t do that,” Devasena says, more harshly than she intends, but Amarendra apparently takes no offense. 

“Someone must.” He shrugs. “Why not me?”

“Because you are my guest,” she retorts, following him instead of going to join her family as she intended. Sumitra can wait long enough for her to talk Amarendra out of this blockheaded insistence. “And, and that’s a servant’s job--”

She’s said the wrong thing, she can see that at once. He stills, only for a second, before continuing onwards, but the ease with which he had looked at her, had spoken to her only moments before, is gone. He does not say another word, and she knows why; to argue further would only allow her to convince him otherwise, and he cannot risk that due to whatever idiotic notion he’s taken into his head--

She could command him to stop. Whoever he is, whatever he is, she is still princess here, and her authority second only to her brother’s. If she wanted to, she could put an end to this and return to Sumitra, who already peers at her with undue suspicion, before her sister-in-law presumes something between Devasena and Amarendra that simply isn’t there. 

But ordering him to do otherwise, she suspects, would probably only worsen the rift that’s come up between them. 

Instead Devasena trails him to the target, surrounded on all sides by a sea of arrows. Amarendra starts collecting arrows on one side; Devasena, only a moment later, begins doing the same on the opposite end. He’s so engrossed in his work--or his thoughts--that he remains oblivious to her presence, and amused, Devasena can’t help but observe the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his arms, the surprising grace with which he plucks arrows from the grass. 

She might continue down that trail of thought further--and a treacherous one it is--if she didn’t find Amarendra staring at her, startled out of his standoffishness. 

Delighted, Devasena shrugs with affected casualness. “The arrows are all still whole,” she declares, as though it is not at all below the dignity of a princess to kneel on the ground and trouble herself to pick up those arrows that she’d already discarded. “I’m sure they can be used once more.”

“Y-Yes,” stammers Amarendra, “yes, I’m certain they can be.“ The expression in his eyes says more than simple agreement, however; Devasena is sure of it, surer than she’s ever been of anything in her life—

He clears his throat. “Where may I keep them?”

Devasena frowns. She’s actually not at all certain where the arrows are stored, save that they’re somehow always available when she requests some. “The armory,” she decides at last; even if that’s not where they are meant to go, she guesses one of the workers will be able to put them in their proper place.

Predictably, Amarendra attempts to take the stack of arrows she bears from her, but Devasena refuses. If she has put forth all this effort, she expects for it to be noticed, she tells herself—that sounds far more likely than that allowing him to take on a burden she will not share is strangely….unpleasant. Intolerable. Not even to be thought of. So she leads him to the armory, and places the arrows she carries on the closest table.

The weapons master beams at her. “May the Almighty smile upon our Crown Princess, who walks among us without airs,” he proclaims, but despite her earlier thoughts of desiring praise, Devasena feels only discomfort. Before today she had never so much as thought of doing such deeds for the sake of others—to bear bow and sword in their defense, yes; to distribute charitable donations from the royal treasure house, yes; but never anything so simple and mundane. She swears to do better by her people in future.

Amarendra is still holding his arrows, too abstracted to realize he can put them down. She takes pity on him and plucks them from his arms, but he jumps at the barest touch of her hands against his.

She can’t understand why until a minute later, when he gently traces the most recent bowstring scar along her forearm almost to the crease of her elbow; his fingertips feel like fire. Devasena can’t help but shiver.

“A bad habit,” he says, gently and without rebuke; then looks up at her wide-eyed as though he had committed the most audacious of crimes. “I must go—my father will be looking for me—thank you—“ he babbles, fleeing the room as though a  _ rakshasa _ follows him.

Devasena, watching him go, isn’t entirely sure that she’s not relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Dhananajaya - a name for the hero Arjuna  
> * _rakshasa_ \- demon


	4. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baahu chooses when he is six years old

On Baahu’s sixth birthday his father wakes him before dawn and asks if they can go somewhere. Later, Baahu will realize that his father offered him many such choices that children, even those who live in free households, are never allowed. Baahu chooses as much as he can within the narrow context of what his father is allowed to give, and so on the morning of his birthday he nods, yawning slightly as his father smiles and lifts him into his arms so that they may quickly reach the outskirts of the city. 

“I have something to tell you,” his father says when they sit leaning against the city wall. Baahu nods.

“I have told you that I am a slave, bound by my ancestors to serve the crown of Mahishmati.” Baahu nods once more, wondering if he might get an extra mango at lunchtime. It had taken some time, but Baahu finally understood what the King meant when he called Father a dog when clearly Father was  _ not  _ a dog but rather a man. 

His father clears his throat, and Baahu wonders if he might need a glass of water amidst all this dust. Before he can ask, his father speaks, clutching at Baahu’s hand so tight that even Baahu’s rudimentary defense skills would not allow him to escape this grasp. 

“Baahu,” he says. “You are free.” 

A beat passes before Baahu can think to respond. “Am I not your son?” 

His father’s hand slips out of Baahu’s grasp, quick as if he had been burned trying to cook again. “No,” he says, speaking slowly now. Too slowly for such a revelation as this! “You were born of another, and given to me by the King to raise as I saw fit.” 

“Oh.” Baahu thinks, for a moment and then another. “But you raised me my whole life. Do you not love me as a father would?”    
  
His fa-- his ... well.  _ His _ eyes bulge, his entire body spasming before he nods, the motion so hard Baahu wonders if it is possible for necks to break and heads to roll. “I do. Of course, I do. There could be no child of my body that I could love more than you.” 

Baahu smiles, shaking his head as he climbs into his father’s lap, giggling at how silly his father can be sometimes. The knowledge of his birth parents is interesting, but what do they matter when he has a living, breathing father who plays with him and feeds him and takes him to see the livestock in the evenings during shift change? “Then I am your son and you are my father. Did you know my birth parents well? Were they warriors? Or horse breeders? Were they nice?” 

“Baahu.” His father is stiff, but when Baahu grabs his hands he does not pull away. Father can be like that sometimes.

“Father.” 

His father sighs. “Baahu, no matter how much I love you, I will still be bound to the throne beyond everything else. You are free, and if you want there are other free people who can take care of you as you deserve. You should be allowed to live well, to choose what you want to do and how you should do it.” 

“Would I still be able to see the horses? Or the elephants?”

“There would be other horses, and perhaps even elephants. You might be able to see them for many hours instead of shift change.” 

An appealing idea. But -- “Would I be able to see you again?” 

“No. It would be dangerous, and when the King notices that you are gone I will probably be killed.” 

An appalling idea, and one that Baahu's father says as easily as he narrates the week's rations menu! “And you couldn’t come with me?” Baahu asks. 

“I am a slave.” 

Baahu makes his decision. He is six years old. “Then can I stay?” 

“Baahu--” 

“Father.” Baahu turns around and glares, noticing with shock that his father’s eyes seem to be full of water. He cannot possibly be shedding tears -- that is only a thing for children like Baahu, not brave Commanders of the Army! Yet, a droplet falls, tracing his father’s cheek and sinking into the hair of his beard. “I choose to stay with you.” 

“It will be hard,” his father says, voice soft in the sunlight in a way Baahu has only heard in the privacy of their hut. “I want you to have a softer life than this, my son.”

There are moments in people’s lives that they remember in times of strife or confusion. This has always been Baahu’s. He thinks of the warming sun, the lines around his father’s eyes. He thinks of the silver bands that signals his father’s slave status and the dust that surrounds them here at the edge of the city his father serves. He is six years old, loves his father and makes this choice for the first of many times. 

“I choose you,” he says. “I’m going to stay with you and be the best soldier I possibly can, and we’re going to be happy even if it’s hard.” 

He nods swiftly, decisively, and his father in 30 years will admit that that was when he first thought that Baahu might truly reclaim the throne of his birthright. Kattapa sees something of Sivagami, and wonders if this luminous son of his will be martyred as well -- certainly not if he can help it. 

Baahu promises to stay with his father, no matter the cost. Kattapa, wondering if this is treason, swears that Amarendra Baahubali will survive to become the greatest King Mahishmati has ever known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment!! please!!!! we want to know what you think!!! constructive criticism or just what you liked or where you think we're going!!! we appreciate any and all feedback!!


	5. BAAHU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a midnight duel goes so wrong and yet so right

Baahu has not been able to sleep for hours when he finally rolls out of his too-soft bed, changes into his cotton clothes and heads to the armory.

The moon is almost full and so there is more than enough light to practice, what Baahu hasn’t decided. His limbs ache like they had right before he fought the Kalakeyas, shaking with energy waiting to be expended -- all this from only one touch of the Princess Devasena. He wonders if this, rather than a desire not to inflict slavery on another generation, was why his father never married. He feels that he could take on a thousand men, ten thousand even, and wishes for a moment that _this_ was an enemy he could fight instead of a betrayal of his own body.  

 _Who am I_ , he wonders, _to believe that I can even approach a Princess, much less this one._ But when he closes his eyes all he can feel is the skin, smooth even at the scars on her arms, her scent a combination of jasmine and the wax of bow strings. Baahu, admittedly, has not known many women, but there is no experience he thinks could have prepared him for the storm of a woman like this. 

There are men with gold and land and swords that belong to them rather than the seat of a throne that might consider themselves worthy of the Princess Devasena. Baahu, a man raised by a slave, considered one to all except he and his father, has nothing he can offer wholeheartedly -- not even himself.

His mind rebels, conjures images of phantom palaces, of hunts together and rooms full of laughter, of a mind that duels just as gracefully as her sword. Baahu reaches the armory, and when he grasps the handle of the door his grip is so tight that the metal bends, breaking as he pulls.

This, finally, is what brings him back to the moment. His strength has always been something he keeps in proper regulation, and there is no woman so wonderful that he can allow his limbs to get away from him.

Distantly, he hears the twang of a bow and smiles, equal part elation and horror. Baahu grabs two of the swords hanging on the wall to his right and locates the arena by listening for the Princess’ bowstring and the inevitable grunts of frustration that follow. He wonders if he should say that her ambition is too low rather than high -- she needs to use three arrows, rather than two.

He finds her kneeling in the moonlight, just past the well used to quench warrior’s thirst as she studies the arrows strewn as she fingers the edge of her last. Her hair has become unbound, her sari plain and her jewelry simple in a way that makes her almost familiar. If he ignores the quality of cloth and the gold that makes up her nose rings rather than the servants’ silver, she could almost be a woman Baahu might have seen in the public square of Mahishmati. He wants to trace the cut of her cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs, twist his fingers in the silk of her hair. 

“Amarendra.” It takes a moment for Baahu to respond to his new name, but it is easier when she is the one whose tongue molds the strange syllables in a shape that suits him. Amarendra sounds like a Prince that might be worth suing for the Princess’ hand.

“Yes,” Baahu responds, his voice distant to his ears as he allows his gaze to slip to her arms, checking for a scar to match the one he traced this morning. He curses the moon for shining too soft to see from this distance and steps forward despite his better instincts.

“You have two swords.” A question, nestled within the authority of a statement. Baahu looks down at his hands. 

“Yes, I do.”

There is a brief, awkward silence when both Baahu and the Princess are left staring at one another. Baahu is first unsure if she will accept his unspoken invitation, then he realizes that said invitation may have to be spoken after all. He begins to offer the second sword when suddenly it is plucked out of his hands with a muttered thanks -- she is beginning to understand.

“Sword fighting is always more satisfying than archery on frustrating nights,” he attempts to explain and to his relief she nods, a gentle smile forming on those perfect lips.

“Only if the bout lasts longer than five minutes,” she laughs. “But yes, I agree.”

“Do you think I am so easy to defeat?” Baahu has been underestimated all his life but for some reason, the idea that _this_ princess could see him so lowly aches in a place he thought had already scarred over.

“Of course not!” She seems almost surprised, and her next words are awkward, directed at the ground where before she spoke looking at his eyes. “I know my limitations, and defeating 25 Pindari far exceeds them.” 

“Oh.” Baahu opens his mouth to reply, but closes it when he realizes he has nothing to say. He waits another moment and the Princess seems satisfied to wait for him to gather his thoughts. Finally: “Your form is better than mine.”

He heard once that the truth could set one free. At the very least, it brings Princess Devasena’s gaze upwards once more, and the sparkle in her eyes would have been worth even the price of a falsehood. 

“Shall we?” She raises her sword, and Baahu wonders if this is the happiest he has ever felt. 

He raises his own in turn, and the duel begins.

The Princess Devasena is lithe, her hair whipping as she spins and ducks, caressing her limbs when she leans back and kicks. Her sword moves like light, and it takes all of Baahu’s concentration for the first few moments to avoid an injury.

The Princess is good. Baahu, the product of 25 years in the region’s finest army, is better. He accustoms himself to her fighting patterns after ten minutes (it usually takes no more than two) and lessens his intensity just enough to be able to maintain a conversation. It takes the Princess four minutes before she understands and does the same.

Their swords cross and Baahu matches her strength evenly, leaning in slightly to look at her through the blades. The moonlight chooses strange planes of her face to illuminate, but he finds himself envious of the light that is able to trace the lines that he cannot.

“What brings you out here?” Baahu jolts at the sound and smiles, his opponent snorting at his reaction. He commits a new expression of hers to memory -- irony, mirth, amusement.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Honest, he thinks to himself. He presses a little harder and the Princess widens her stance to create more leverage.

“I hope that has nothing to do with your accommodations.” Princesses, as far as Baahu knows, are meant to be excellent hosts, conscientious of their guests’ wellbeing. The Princess Devasena recites the words as if reading them off a paper for the first time and then adds a challenging eyebrow as punctuation as if to question even the smallest slight against her palace’s furnishings. Baahu is delighted. 

“Everything is fine. I was just thinking.” 

“Hmm. As was I.”

Baahu breaks his stance and steps quickly to the side, admiring Devasena’s balance as she stumbles just slightly and catches herself, turning quickly to thrust.

“I’m sure the responsibilities of a Princess must weigh heavily on the mind.” Baahu hopes that he sounds sympathetic. And truly, a woman like Devasena must be worried by more than broken jewelry or wilted flowers.

“A Princess I could handle. The all-encompassing ordeal of wife-hood, I’m not sure.”

Baahu, who has been lost in visions of romance and hazy ideas of gentle touches and small children, finds himself quickly re-acquainted with the reality that brought him to the arena. For the first time in years his shock brings him to a halt and when Devasena’s sword slashes him across the chest he barely takes notice of the pain, nor the spurt of liquid that begins to seep into his tunic. The clang of her sword hitting the ground is how he realizes that something has gone wrong (beyond the fact that one-day Devasena will marry, and he will never see her again.)

“Amarendra!” Her shriek is muffled by the hands clasped over her mouth. When Baahu looks up at her face his heart sinks at the sight of her beautiful, brilliant eyes full of tears. Distantly, he thinks that they seem twin diamonds even if he wished her tears had not been born of horror.

“I am so--” Baahu waves away her apologies before they begin. If he is only to be here for a short time then he would rather not remember her grief or guilt. He walks to the edge and sits, debating whether it would be appropriate to remove his tunic in the presence of a woman in order to fashion a bandage. He hears the tearing of fabric and realizes that the Princess has not followed him to the edge. Again, the sound of ripping fabric that this time Baahu traces to a pillar ten feet to his left. 

“Princess?”

“Just wait one moment, please.” He sees her move away from the pillar but rather than walking to him she goes in the opposite direction. Baahu’s breath catches within his bleeding chest when he realizes that she means to pull water from the well for him, but not even the slight guilt he feels prevents him from noticing with pleasure the very shapely muscles in her arms as she grasps the rope and brings the bucket to the edge.

“Here.” She settles beside Baahu and wets a strip of what Baahu immediately notices was part of the sari she wears. She has changed the way she ties the cloth so that it resembles a skirt more than it does the pants that allow full motion. More, the fabric from below the knees has been cut away entirely, parts of it balled up in her hand and sopping with the water she pulled.

“Princess you shouldn’t have done that to your own clothes,” he begins, sliding back before she grabs his arm and holds him steady. Fire, Baahu wonders briefly at the sensation that floods him, but of course, it is significantly more pleasant. 

“I hurt you. Of course, I should.” Her voice is small but steady. Her hair, which before Baahu had thought was straight has curled after the exertion. She dabs gently at his wound and Baahu, who has known a lifetime of injury, has never known a nurse like this.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” her voice is quiet, defeated. Baahu dislikes it immensely, as much as he can bring himself to dislike anything about Devasena. “I know my duty, and it will be my honor to marry.”

Baahu dazed perhaps by his blood loss or the touch of Devasena’s fingers, loses his inhibitions and grabs for the hand that fists her sari, loosening her grip and twining his fingers in between hers. He thinks, as he does many times, about his sixth birthday and finds that he understands the perspective of his father for the very first time.

“You deserve a softer world than this,” he says and puts aside his own suit to imagine the many men that would try to crush this woman, a glowing ore of Iron meant to become the steel of the finest swords. “I chose once for love, and never found myself regretting the path my life has taken. Someone who loves you will not ask you to take on the burden of becoming a person you are not.” He removes his hand and her fingers slide away. When he dares to see her face his heart sinks at the expression -- her eyes are wide, her cheeks dark in what he can only assume is a flush of outrage. Her lips are parted.

Fortunately, it seems that royalty instills enough tact to ignore the ramblings of a fool, a man brought up as a slave daring to empathize with a Princess meant to be the companion of Emperors. Baahu firmly brings his gaze back to the ground and clenches his jaw, forcing himself not to think of the softness of her fingertips as she resumes cleaning his wound.

Neither of them talks as the Princess ties her strips of cloth around his chest, a bandage that could buy an entire village. When he leaves, he wonders if she will ever speak to him again.

Well. Better that it could end before Baahu managed to find himself in real trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE we're begging u please leave us comments we live for ur reactions


	6. DEVASENA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> boars and bows and blood, oh my!

Prickly and preoccupied after her nighttime encounter, Devasena neglects to mention the petition she received the previous afternoon until she’s preparing to depart for the fields.

Sumitra, unsurprisingly, is appalled. “On the very day of the Krishna puja!” she cries, as though she were not capable of organizing the entire ceremony unassisted.

“The boars are destroying the farmers’ crops,” Devasena retorts. “It is hardly any of my doing.” She slept poorly even after she returned to her chambers, and consequently her voice comes out sharper than is her custom--and Sumitra’s answering look is curious rather than offended. Devasena sighs, not even sure where to begin an explanation.

Jayasena comes to her rescue. “Go now and return quickly,” he offers, and, to Sumitra: “You know such things are child’s play for her.”

He is clearly oblivious to the interplay between his sister and his wife, and Devasena is perfectly happy to keep him ignorant. 

“I’ll take Kumar Varma with me to help,” she offers. “The more hands we have to help, the more quickly the hunt can be completed.”

“As long as you return by moonrise,” says  Sumitra, but the glint in her eyes makes it clear that Devasena has only delayed the inevitable. At least this will give her time to plan a counter-attack to her sister-in-law’s barrage of questions. Out of guilt--or a half-hearted attempted to coax Sumitra into showing mercy later--Devasena leaves her ladies-in-waiting behind to help with the preparations with the  _ puja _ . It is kinder not to subject them to the harsh sun or the unpleasant smells and sounds of the hunt unnecessarily; and after all, it’s plain for anyone to see that she has as much need for chaperonage in the company of Kumar Varma as she does in the company of her brother-by-blood.

Her miscalculations become apparent from the very moment she manages to find her brother-in-law. 

“I hate pigs,” he announces dolefully, and behind him, the elder of Kuntala’s guests nods in amused sympathy. At once Kumar Varma, delighted to find an appreciative audience for once, begins listing the infinite faults of the porcine race, but Devasena pays him no heed: her attention is fixed on the younger of their guests, currently standing slightly behind his father and apparently trying his very best to ignore her presence without being unforgivably conspicuous about it. 

She finds she can’t entirely blame him: all hail the Princess Devasena, who set out to impress a man and managed only to injure him instead! And, even ignoring that calamity, she had certainly shocked him with her ill-considered words. 

She ought to have behaved better.

Devasena has always known she is expected to marry, and that too, to marry well: gone are the days when a Queen might rule alone, and choose her consort, no matter how lowly, for love alone. But that does nothing to curb her occasional wistful wonderings, her surges of impatience with every suitor who has come to call, her memories of someone saying, _ I should be proud if you did no less, Devasena. _

Last night Sumitra came to her in order to display the portraits of every prince who sent a proposal all the way into the mountains of Kuntala, and obligingly, Devasena had peered at every face as she listened to the descriptions of their homes and holdings while trying to ignore the foreboding deep in her belly at the thought of marrying any of them. 

They had all been rich enough, and powerful enough, and many of them more than handsome enough to suit anyone, even a princess as discriminating as Devasena. Some of the faces had even been soft with what she likes to think would be genuine kindness, but even that had not been enough. Or rather-- _ she _ would not be enough, not any more, not after she wed.

In Kuntala, as the King’s beloved sister, Devasena is cherished and valued; but as someone’s wife, she thinks she might only blunder and bumble about until it was clear that the only things at which she excels are those which no husband would expect of her.

_ Someone who loves you will not ask you to take on the burden of becoming a person you are not, _ she remembers without quite meaning to, and she flushes once again. Amarendra’s voice had been low and sincere, and he’d held her hand between his own as though--as though--

Well. He is certainly more gracious in the face of injury than she could expect anyone else to be. Devasena has not been so clumsy as to wound anyone without meaning to in decades. She looks up at Amarendra to find him studying her; her mouth surprises her by tilting upwards into a smile, apparently of its own volition. 

“I do hope you’re faring no worse?”

The question seems to take him by surprise, as though he imagined Devasena could be so careless to forget how she was at fault. “Of course, Crown Princess,” he replies, respectful as always. “Please don’t concern yourself about last night. I find myself entirely recovered.”

His father frowns at those words, and Devasena can only assume Amarendra had not yet shared the details of his injury with him. Odd; she supposed those two to have no secrets from one other. The finer points of the relationship between a father and his son are a mystery to her, though, another casualty of her parents’ early demise, and perhaps she ought not to be so surprised.  

Politely, she extends the invitation to go along on the hunt to Amarendra and his father as well, thinking idly that if they found themselves so deprived of entertainment that they had to resort to swordfights by moonlight, they might as well make themselves useful. Amarendra’s father accepts for the both of them courteously enough, but she hardly notices: Amarendra catches her eye, his gaze bright with such quiet humor that he must surely have guessed her thoughts. 

“I really do hate pigs,” says Kumar Varma to no one in particular. Devasena, still too busy smiling helplessly at Amarendra, takes his arm to drag him along without affording him the dignity of a response. 

By the time they arrive at their destination, Devasena’s mood has improved considerably. True, Amarendra and his father refuse to ride in the chariots, pleading that they prefer the exercise of a walk, but the sun is shining, the wind pleasantly cool in her face, and her bow strung and sturdy by her side: she wants for nothing more.

They wait at the edge of the fields for the farmers to collect the rattles and drums needed to frighten the boars from their hiding places. Only then does Amarendra approach her chariot, casting an uncertain glance at the lack of any hounds or spears. 

“I place more faith in a well-aimed arrow than any other weapon,” she says by way of response. Spears can break, she knows all too well, and hounds become distracted, but her bow will never betray her.

He smiles up at her, but warns: “There is nothing so dangerous as a wounded animal.”

Devasena grins, slow and fierce and not ladylike in the slightest. “You assume I shoot to wound, not kill.”

Amarendra’s reply is drowned out by the return of the farmers. “At your command, Princess,” says their leader, bowing, and Devasena nods her thanks. 

Across the way, Kumar Varma casts an anxious glance at Amarendra’s father. “Perhaps,” he ventures, “you might accompany me?”

Devasena can’t imagine how prowess might be passed along by proximity, but the thought appears to offer Kumar Varma comfort, all the more so when his request is accepted. As pleased as she is for him, this leaves her looking uncertainly at Amarendra, and him at her, until she musters up all her courage and offers him her hand in silent invitation.

He stares at her hand, and his, and back again as though he has never seen a human hand before. Devasena’s heart sinks; she is about to pull away and pretend she had never been so foolish when his fingers unexpectedly twine around hers.

His hand is as warm and startlingly pleasant as before, but now behind the fire, there is a familiarity to the sensation. Devasena thrills to it, and he lets her pull him up into the chariot behind her.

Amarendra insists on carrying her quiver as his father does Kumar’s, both of them bewilderingly committed to being helpful at all times. This makes what is already a cramped chariot feel even smaller; Devasena designed her vehicle for speed rather than spaciousness and never has she regretted that more than today. Every time the chariot encounters a bump in the road, they must both brace themselves to keep from brushing against each other. Every time they find themselves successful, Devasena must bite back a curious combination of relief and regret.

A sudden rustle of the grass to her right distracts her. Amarendra straightens, and she knows he must have seen it too. The world constricts to her fingers on the bowstring and the boar in the distance; she releases, and does not have to wait for the thud of the corpse falling to the ground to know she has hit her mark.

“Well done,” murmurs Amarendra, with every sign of genuine awe, but something in his tone makes her stare up at him suspiciously.

“I suppose you could do better?” she demands, knowing she sounds childish and not caring in the slightest. Mastery of swordplay she will gladly surrender to a man who’s proven himself against twenty-five enemies, but he must challenge her before he deserves to make the same claim for archery.

“No—I—“ Amarendra begins, but too late: Devasena has already pressed her bow into his hands and taken the quiver from him. By her raised eyebrows, she urges him onwards; his expression can only be described as exasperated, but, she fancies, not without some fondness.

Another rustle announces the advent of a second boar. Amarendra frowns in concentration before drawing his bowstring back; his form may be far more careless than her own, she notes, but his arrow finds its target nonetheless.

“I’ve seen worse,” Devasena admits grudgingly before reclaiming her bow. Amarendra appears relieved, but his respite lasts only for the few minutes it takes Devasena to seek out and shoot down another boar. This time, when he takes the bow from her, she can see a faint smile cross his lips. It is more than worth the curious stares they are attracting from the onlookers.

By the time Devasena has felled six boars to Amarendra’s five, she must concede that he truly is as talented at the bow as he is with the sword and, she is certain, every other weapon his fingers have ever touched. She wonders at her own reaction; usually she regards any rivals with resentment, rather than the heady mixture of astonishment and admiration and overwhelming attraction she feels at the moment. 

She passes the bow over, and with a look of sudden mischief, he takes three arrows, not one, from the quiver she holds. Wide-eyed, she watches him line them up precisely and release so they puncture the boar’s tail, belly, and eye all at once.

He turns to smile at her, confident and assured for once instead of his customary diffidence, and Devasena’s heart beats a thousand times faster. 

He will show her—he  _ must _ show her—how he accomplishes his feat and once he does, she thinks she might say anything to him, no matter how reckless or irresponsible. She might do anything at all, if she knew how to perform such a marvel. She might do anything at all, as long as Amarendra is beside her. 

Words fail her. She places a hand on his shoulder, in hopes that touch might convey what talking cannot, but stills at what she finds there. She should have known, should have suspected somehow, but instead she’d been too busy with her foolish fantasies. Her stomach twists in sudden shame.

“Princess?” Amarendra asks, with the audacity to sound concerned for her instead of the other way around. She ignores him.

Her fingertips, when she forces herself to examine them and confirm what she already knows, are dark with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For those curious, I imagine that in the canon universe, Devasena wandered off to figure out the truth of Kumar Varma's wood-chopping stunt and subsequently was distracted by her irritation at Amarendra and Kattappa's attempt at damage control; in this universe, where none of that happens, she is instead around to have the conversation with Sumitra that upsets her so. 
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments so far, and for all of your love and support! It really does encourage us to keep churning these chapters out as quickly as possible! :D


	7. BAAHU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a conversation, a conundrum, a song

Baahu does not remember much of the journey back from the (formerly) boar infested fields -- there is blood leaking from the cut that has reopened and the Princess has insisted that he recline as best he can. 

“You’re bleeding,” she says for what Baahu has counted as the fifth time. Her hands, attempting to staunch the flow are covered in the red of his blood, the smell of iron mixing with the flower of her perfume. The chariot jolts and the Princess crashes into Baahu, her body perfectly molding into the contours of his. 

“Yes,” he replies for the fifth time, now speaking into the skin of her neck. “I am.” 

They reach the palace, and before anyone can ask questions she has grabbed Baahu by the hand and leads him to the quarters Baahu and his father have been given for their stay. 

“Princess,” Baahu tries, because this amount of fuss is unnecessary -- back in Mahishmati not a week goes by without Baahu finding some way to bleed or some bone to break. “There really is no need to--” 

“Quiet.” Baahu has never disobeyed a direct order: he stops speaking. 

The Princess gestures for Baahu to recline near the head of the bed, narrowing her eyes when he thinks to disagree. “This is my fault,” she says softly, turning to call for her maids before Baahu can remind her who reopened his wound. 

There is some quiet conversation that Baahu is not privy to before the snap of an order. When Devasena turns around they are alone. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “For everything that’s happened since last night. You must see me as some horrible demon.” 

There are a million thoughts rattling inside Baahu’s head. The only one he can find within himself to vocalize is: “Why?” 

“Why?” Devasena sounds incredulous, but Baahu is willing to be considered an idiot if it will resolve his confusion.

“For one, I cut you last night when we were sparring.” Devasena stands, and Baahu watches bemused as she begins to pace, her voice growing louder as she continues. “You were kind enough to maintain a level simple enough to accommodate me, and I, in turn, managed to distract you with such outrageous drivel that you were struck by my blade!”

Devasena takes a breath. “And then today! You complimented me and in return I forced you to take up the bow, re-injuring yourself!”  

The maid Devasena had been speaking to earlier returns carrying a jar of what Baahu assumes is ointment. Baahu gestures for her to leave it on the side table before Devasena can realize they were interrupted. There is a tinge of hysteria to Devasena’s words and he wonders who, in a palace without equal, she can find to confide in. 

(If the rage brings a becoming flush to her cheek, that is neither here nor there.) 

“And?” 

Devasena blinks with shock. “What do you mean,  _ and _ .”

Baahu shrugs, choosing his words with care. He does not need the Princess’s luminous fury to be directed at himself. “Two mistakes, neither of which were truly your doing would not send a woman like you into such a state.” 

“A woman like me.”    
  
Baahu winces and opens his mouth to correct himself when Devasena begins once more. 

“A woman like me. A woman like me! That’s all people here talk about, oh Devasena the wild girl who learned how to wield weapons instead of how to be a wife! They’ll use my skills when they need me to chase vermin out of their fields or save them from bandits but one moment of peace and it’s back to talking about how lovely it would be if I could look more like a princess.” 

Baahu wishes for a moment that he lived in a world where he was free to sweep Devasena into his arms, to brush the tears he sees brimming at the corners of her eyes away, to press gentle kisses into the slopes of her cheekbones. 

“Princess,” he says instead, “a maid left some ointment near the door.” 

Devasena blushes, taking his need for time in order to gather his thoughts as the dismissal it must seem to anyone reasonable. Baahu sighs. “Devasena,” he calls out, and she halts, frozen as her hand grasps the jar. “I need one moment before I can respond,” Baahu says like a confession. “I was trained to find warfare easier than breath, but I find words demand more of my time than most people are willing to give.” 

It is Baahu’s good fortune that the Princess seems to understand, motioning for Baahu to take off his tunic and using the cloth left on top of the jar to wipe away at the blood that has crusted. She uncaps the jar and moves to dip the cloth when she pauses for a moment, biting her lip before she dips her own fingers to scoop out the ointment and apply it to Baahu’s wound herself. 

Even 25 years of training are not enough to prevent Baahu from wincing when his back hits the wall. “What was wrong with the cloth?” 

The Princess frowns. “It was covered in blood.” 

Baahu finds that he has no response, and in his silence, Devasena begins to smooth the ointment into his skin. In a euphoric haze, he shifts back into observing the Princess, relishing her nearness.

Her hair, curled again from the exertion of the day threatens to escape its confines. Already a few curls trace the outlines of Devasena’s face, mirroring the paths Baahu longs to trace with his fingers. She is so very lovely, full of life and wit, beautiful and wise with a drive to prove herself and talent enough to cement her place in her country’s memory. To find her lacking is obscene, Baahu thinks. A blasphemy against the Great God Himself. 

“You are,” he begins, “so very lovely.” They are both blushing, but Baahu finds that he cannot help but continue. “I know it is inappropriate for me to say so, but I have never seen a person so suited to her royal status. You risk life and limb to protect people, go on errands to ensure their prosperity. These acts are unusual not because you are a woman, but because there are so few who embody their duty.”

Baahu swallows, and the silence has become so thick that he wonders if he is not about to be chased from the Palace, bleeding and shirtless. “I cannot pretend to understand your position, but it would be any man’s honor to have you as his wife. It would be any nation’s good fortune to welcome you into their royal family. I have found you to be both kind and intelligent, and --”

Baahu falters. He dares to look up and sees that tears have once more entered Devasena’s eyes. His heart sinks. 

“And?” She prompts, fingers glistening with the ointment she has finished applying. Baahu swallows again and decides to put his fate in the hands of destiny. 

“And beautiful. You are the most beautiful woman I have seen.” If Devasena attempts to kill him, Baahu can identify at least two objects he may use as a shield before he can grab his sword. He is injured, but he has run faster under worse circumstances. 

“Oh,” she says. Her eyes are wide, but Baahu has not called enough people beautiful to know if that is a good or bad sign. 

Baahu grimaces. “Not that beauty has anything to do with your attributes as a ruler--” Wisely, the Princess decides to cover Baahu’s mouth with her free hand before he can seem any more a fool. 

“Thank you,” she says, fingers over his lips. “But I can’t cook or clean, and everyone says I’m too quick to anger, and really I’m more comfortable in simple clothes than the royal jewelry. Also, I hate serving food during festivals.” Her words grow faster until finally, she exhales, all her faults purged and presented before Baahu like an animal for slaughter. 

Faintly, he realizes that he is supposed to reject her. He wonders how many already have. 

“Anyone who can learn to wield a sword like you can learn to cook and clean -- if you never have the urge, as royalty you will always have the services of those more talented at those arts than yourself.” Baahu laughs faintly, and when he sees Devasena respond he feels his heart expand, a new reservoir created to house the fondness and adoration that comprises his being. “As for the others, you will find someone willing to accommodate you for the person you are just as you will accommodate them.” 

Devasena lifts an eyebrow. “And will they find me beautiful?”

Baahu blushes. “A dead man would satisfy that condition, Princess.” 

And this, after a sword fight, an archery contest, after 25 dead Pindaris, a false identity and a long walk to the Kuntalan Palace is what makes Crown Princess Devasena laugh. Baahu has won wars, but no victory has ever tasted so sweet.

The maid has come back, calling now for the Crown Princess to change for the Krishna Puja. Devasena, still smiling rises, wiping her hand with the bloodstained cloth. 

“I can sing, you know.” She says it with the air of conveying a state secret. “It won’t feed my husband, but it might soothe the pangs of starvation.” 

Baahu is a man deep in the throes of an impossible love, and for the first time, he feels the courage of his own hopelessness. He takes a chance. “But will it soothe the pangs of a wound? I’m injured you know, perhaps I need the magic of your voice to fall asleep.” 

The Princess Devasena smiles as she walks out, and Baahu feels for a moment that anything could be within his grasp. He could be a hero, make himself worthy of her hand, her love, stand by her side as she guided her kingdom into a new age of prosperity. 

From his room he can hear the faint strains of music, the laughing of women, and one perfect voice above them all:

A lullaby, he realizes with a jolt. She’s singing him a lullaby. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read and review!!! we love u guys so much!!


	8. DEVASENA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One perfect day.

“I must not,” says Devasena, “have heard you correctly.”

To her it seems a most calm and reasonable statement, in a most calm and reasonable tone, but the telling twitch of Amarendra’s lips suggests otherwise.

“I was only wondering if you would care to accompany me into the countryside,” he says with the half-apologetic inflection to which she’s become accustomed. “Of course, if it would be too much trouble….”

Devasena stares at him suspiciously. A visit to the Kuntalan wilds sounds innocuous enough, but she can’t help but worry nonetheless. It’s been no secret that during the days since the Krishna puja, she has taken it upon herself to supervise him and ensure he doesn’t open up his wound once again. If that means keeping herself in his company during all daytime hours, it’s the least she can do as recompense.

It’s not as unnecessary as it seems. Twice already Devasena has had to shoo Amarendra away from the armory, and thrice from the training fields. That doesn’t even take into the number of times Amarendra can’t help but volunteer to help passing servants straining under a heavy burden or struggling with the butter churn. It would be exasperating if it was not so endearing.

And besides, inexplicable though it may be given the number of times she’s been responsible for his injuries, Amarendra genuinely seems to enjoy her company. The finer points of tact and subtlety might evade her, but not even Devasena could fail to interpret his words as she’d tended to his wounds the second time as a clear declaration of intent.

She responded in kind, the words of her song making it known his attentions were not unwelcome, and she thinks he must have understood, although he’s not said a word on the subject since. Nor, for that matter, has she.

Still, she owes it to him, and herself, to scrutinize his proposal as seriously as she would any other suitor’s. Devasena does not doubt that she loves him, but love cannot be the only consideration, not for a princess.

When Devasena was eight, she stood before her countrymen and swore an oath to protect them with her last breath, to perform her duties no matter what the cost, to put their concerns above her own always. To marry someone who would not hold these tenets equally dear—or worse, might have loyalties and unscrupulous motives of his own—is to betray that oath, no matter how much her emotions might tempt her otherwise.

Amarendra coughs awkwardly: she’s been lost in her abstractions too long. 

“It will be no trouble at all,” she tells him, refusing to expose her embarrassment by so much as a blush or a stammer. “Only let me call someone to arrange for a chariot—“

Now Amarendra clears his throat. Devasena raises her eyebrows in response.

“I thought,” he says, obviously choosing his words carefully, “that perhaps we might travel less ostentatiously?”

“You mean in disguise.” Devasena keeps her voice level by sheer force of will; her heartbeat drums in her ears. Amarendra might try to be subtle all he wishes, but his intent is obvious: what better way to woo a maiden than to arrange for them to leave the confines of the palace alone? She’s quite certain that wooing is all he has in mind; she might have known him long, but Devasena is certain that Amarendra’s sense of personal honor will not allow him to take liberties, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. But still, propriety would dictate….

Oh, what use is propriety if it keeps her from him? Boldly Devasena smiles at Amarendra. “Very well, then,” she murmurs, and is gratified to see him smile back. 

There is a village of farmers Devasena dimly remembers visiting, on the opposite side of the palace from the fields they had rid of boars days previous. In her childhood, when her father had still lived, and she and Jayasena were still carefree, they had had picnics there among their people; she has a faint recollection of the three of them laughing together at nothing in particular.

But that was before everything changed. In another world, a better world, where the empire to their north is ruled by someone honorable and wise, Devasena fancies it might not have, that she still might recognize all the farmers of her land as fondly as she does her own family. But Mahishmati is ruled by a Regent who is drunk much of the time, and greedy and underhanded all the rest: more than once already he has tried to turn Kuntala‘s own nobles against its Royal Family. Any show of indecorum is a weakness Bijjaladeva can exploit, and so the picnics stopped, and the laughter, too.

Today, though, it is somehow important that Amarendra see this place where she was once happy: that he stand amidst those old memories and make new ones to take their place. Before she puts on the plainest clothes she owns and announces loudly to her ladies-in-waiting that she has a headache and means to rest, undisturbed, in her rooms for the rest of the day. It’s evident that none of them believe her, but they are at least kind enough to allow her the fiction: and when she slips out of her chambers bare minutes later, they pointedly look away.

Amarendra is waiting patiently, a pair of horses by his side, and she swings herself into the saddle before pointing out the way to him. They ride in silence, which Devasena appreciates as an opportunity to gather her thoughts. She cannot expect him to wait forever for an answer to his unspoken question; sooner or later, she must make up her mind. And—should she decide in the affirmative—that would mean approaching her brother formally, as an heir to her King, rather than as an indulged sister, to declare her plans to wed and demand his blessing. She can’t be sure what Jayasena might say. Surely he will approve. Surely he will see Amarendra’s worth as easily as she does.

“Is this the village?”

Amarendra’s quiet voice interrupts her thoughts once more. Relieved, Devasena nods.

“Yes,” she says, dismounting to peer at the cluster of huts in their little clearing. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

Amarendra says nothing, only gazes at the trees and greenery around them. She wonders suddenly what nation he might hail from, to study them with such interest, but that hardly matters: what really matters is what nation he might call his own in the years to come.

“Do you think,” Devasena asks, rather than contemplate that question further, “that they might recognize me?”

That sends his gaze, and all his focus, to fix on her instead. Devasena shivers. She had not lied when she admitted to him that she preferred simple clothes over royal raiment, and her hair is only plaited back loosely. Her earrings and nose ring are no more than unembellished loops, and her wrists and ankles are bare, but something in the way he looks at her makes her think—makes her  _ know _ —that he finds her beautiful nonetheless.

Amarendra taps her right forearm instead, and her throat goes dry; she wants his hands everywhere at once. “Truly, a bad habit,” is all he says, voice husky, and she thinks:  _ What? _

The scars, of course. The bowstring scars a peasant woman would not be expected to bear. Devasena, who’d been so proud of her preparations, swallows with disappointment.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says. “Perhaps we should return—“

But Amarendra only shakes his head and leads her to a where a man is selling trinkets laid out on a ragged blanket. Amarendra squats down beside him and begins negotiations quietly. He haggles over the price for a few minutes, and Devasena, watching both men refuse to budge, wonders if they might not come to blows. But it seems all of this anger is feigned ; when Amarendra carefully counts out three copper coins, the vendor gives him a gap-toothed smile.

Amarendra nods back and turns to Devasena, sliding the bangles he’d bought over her wrist so they covered her forearm. ”Forgive me,” he says, “they are hardly worthy of you—“

Devasena is too busy admiring them to bother to correct his ridiculous misapprehension. Glass bangles, she discovers to her delight, glow in the sunlight with a warmth that the cold gleam of gold cannot equal and—bangles. He’d bought her bangles. Devasena might be a novice to love, but she is hardly ignorant of the implications.

She beams at him. “They’re wonderful,” she assures him and is pleased to see him blush in response.

There is a ledge by the village that overlooks much of Kuntala: from it, both the stately white palace and the dam that keeps the river in check can be seen. Devasena perches exactly where she remembers sitting all those years back, letting her feet swing over the edge and listens to Amarendra tell her all about his expeditions with his father. 

That he is well-traveled is no surprise: Devasena noted dust from a long journey the day she met him. But he is clever and amusing in the observations he chooses to share, and his words suggest a steady disposition and an open mind. 

All enviable traits for a royal consort to possess, but also: his voice is low and pleasing to her ears. She thinks she could listen to him speak forever.

In turn Devasena speaks of her own family. By contrast she has no tales of faraway lands to share; nothing, in fact, but the routine domestic disasters they face in the royal palace. One of the benefits of having confessed her sins to Amarendra and received absolution is that she no longer feels any shame in describing the mess that follows any culinary attempt on her part.

Amarendra, however, does not so much as laugh, although she could hardly begrudge him a chuckle or two at her latest attempts at cooking rice. Instead he studies her as intently as he had earlier, and it is Devasena’s turn to blush.

He holds out a hand to her, and she takes it, curious--only to become more confused when he leads her to the center of the little village. Surely he intends, as does she, to escape unnecessary attention; and then the next minute, he opens his mouth to address who must be the village headman. 

Devasena digs her fingertips into Amarendra’s arm. Naturally, when she intends for once to do some harm, it has absolutely no effect; Amarendra ignores her determinedly. 

He murmurs some pleasantries about how productive the village appears, how prosperous and how well-maintained, and the headman swells with pride. 

“We owe it all to our King,” is the gracious reply, “and our Princess.”

“Your Princess?”

The headman needs no further prompting. “Fierce and fearless and fearsome in battle,” he effuses, “Firm and faithful in her duty. She does her noble mother proud.”

Devasena, who had meant to protest, finds words have escaped her entirely. It is fortunate that the headman must assume that she is a simpleton, because it allows Amarendra to steer her away with a minimum of fuss.

“Your people love you, Princess,” he whispers in her ear. “It makes no difference to them if you can cook or clean or keep house; to them, you have never been derelict in your duty.”

“And is that all that matters? What the people think of one?”

Amarendra considers this. “No,” he decides at last. “What matters is what one thinks of oneself. And for you, Princess, that depends on the fact that you are not dishonored in your people’s eyes.”

She does not know what to say to that, save that she thinks he understands her better than anyone else ever has. She remains silent, even as he moves away, drawn into a conversation with the headman once more; and stands there still, idly toying with her bangles, until an elderly woman approaches her.

 

“He has a good heart, that young man of yours,” she offers in a voice cracked by age and experience, and Devasena looks up to where Amarendra is listening to the headman drone on about the many minor difficulties that still afflict the village.

He is not looking at her; he is looking out at the forests and peaks of Kuntala with an expression as tender as the one he reserves for her, and then he turns to the headman once more with an indistinct rumble that, judging by the way the headman’s face clears, must be a solution to his problem. Amarendra is standing in their midst as though he belongs there, rather than regal and removed, and that, she realizes suddenly, is where she wants to be.

“Yes,” she agrees. “He does.”

Tomorrow. She’ll speak to her brother tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * So there you have it: among the other things to dislike Bijju for in this story, he is also responsible for Devasena being rather more out-of-touch with her subjects than she is in my usual headcanon.   
> Thank you for all the love and support for this story! We adore each and every one of your comments :)


	9. BAAHU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> devasena learns to shoot

It is the evening after the most extraordinary day of Baahu’s life, and as if on cue it is this evening when the Pindaris choose to attack. 

Baahu and his father are walking aimlessly around the perimeter of the Kuntalan palace when they both hear the tell-tale rustle of intruders, the breathing of horses, the brush of metal sword on metal armor plates that even the most skilled of warriors cannot prevent. He glances to his father who nods before proceeding to speak of the increase of produce prices as if either of them know the price of garlic in Kuntala.

Cooks draw far less attention than trained soldiers, and so Baahu plays along. He complains bitterly about how coconuts are so plentiful and yet so expensive when purchased in the bulk necessary to make the King’s favorite lentil soup. Baahu is sure that he is speaking of a cuisine native to a land very far from Kuntala, but he would wager that the only people less likely to know are the Pindari front line, and perhaps the Princess Devasena. 

Within a few hand movements, Baahu’s father conveys that he will inform the King and Kumaravarma. Baahu runs to the wing of the palace that belongs to Devasena and climbs in through the window to avoid the hassle of pleading his case to the rightfully suspicious servants.

She is so beautiful, he thinks as he watches the Princess through the gauzy curtain around her, and then he remembers that her nation is under attack. 

“Devasena,” Baahu whispers, parting the fabric and gently shaking her shoulder. She sighs softly, and there is a part of Baahu that threatens to come undone. “Devasena the Pindaris are here. They are about to attack” 

She jolts upright, and Baahu braces his shoulders. “The Pindaris are here,” he repeats before she can ask any question about his presence here in her private rooms. “My father and I heard them near the Western perimeter of the palace, and they will attempt to infiltrate the palace before they begin their assault on the nation at large. My father has gone to inform the others, but you and I --” 

“We have to stop the initial attack to give everyone else enough time to gather.” 

“Yes,” Baahu nods, unsurprised that she has caught on so quickly. He turns quickly and notices the Princess’ bow and sword lying neatly on her side table. “My weapons are back in the visitors’ quarters but I know the Pindaris will plan to attack you and the other women first.” 

Devasena’s lips purse in disgust. “To attack defenseless women ....” 

“They have no honor,” Baahu replies offhandedly before freezing, grabbing her hand in his haste. “The Pindaris are no nation that fights according to the rules of war laid out in the texts we studied, Devasena. They are marauders that attack, plunder and then move without the need to consider the state in which they leave their victims. Our strategy must account for this.” 

“Must we sink to the level of our enemies in order to defeat them?” This, accompanied by a perfectly raised eyebrow. Baahu is still clutching her hand. 

“Of course not,” Baahu exhales and finds himself looking away. “But at least try not to show them your back.” 

She laughs at this, clear and bright and brilliant, and then threads her fingers through his. “You forget that I have fought them too, and I find no heroism in brash stupidity.”  

“Nor do I,” Baahu says with relief. “I will take the bow then, and leave you the sword?”

Devasena nods and rises, loose tendrils of hair falling out of her plait. “Hold this,” she says, handing Baahu her quiver and --

And undoing the clothes she wore to sleep. 

“Princess!” Baahu exclaims in his loudest possible whisper as he turns around. He hears the sound of Devasena’s laughter again and doesn’t understand how she could possibly find this amusing. “Princess this is most....” 

“You’re in my private quarters Amarendra,” he hears and winces. “And time is of the essence. I need help tying the sari over my quiver.” 

If Baahu were a questioning man this moment would prove the existence of the Great God once and for all -- his entire existence must be a form of amusement for some higher being. He bows his head at Devasena’s logic and turns around. 

“Good,” she says, fingers combing through the hair she has released of its plait. The blouse thankfully remains while the mass of cloth usually swathed around her body lies on the ground, one length of it wrapped around her waist and knotted at her right hip revealing a thin strip of skin along the seam of her right leg. Baahu’s heart is beating so fast that he feels it might fall right out of his chest, but when he hazards a glance back to Devasena he can only see calm amusement as she raises one hand to beckon him closer, looking to all the world like Lakshmi rising from the Churning of the Ocean, almost too much for mere mortals to witness. 

“I will need you to adjust the quiver over my blouse,” she says and turns around. Baahu moves to comply, slipping the loop of the quiver over her raised arm and head, war-hardened fingers scraping unseemly against the silk of her nape. Devasena’s skin smells of the jasmine flowers so sweet that they can only be offered in worship of the Gods, and Baahu takes a moment to mumble a prayer for her to see the next Krishna puja safe and sound.  

“I tie my sari like a dancer,” Baahu hears as he tightens the clasp of the quiver and her words are so unexpected that it brings him out of his reverie. “The members of court wouldn’t let me fight in a man’s garb, and the only women quite so active as I are the temple dancers. I asked one to teach me when I was  ten years old.” 

Baahu doesn’t know what to say so he stays silent, still standing behind her as Devasena passes the pleats between her legs to fashion pants to fight in and tucks them back into the fabric knotted around her hips. She throws the end of the sari over the other shoulder and pulls the end under the flimsy gold belt at her waist. 

“Shall we go?” 

“Do you not have a breastplate of some sort to protect your torso?” Simple fabric will not guard against the metal of enemies, and even beyond that, there are entire swaths of her skin that are completely exposed. True he has never seen her wear armor before, but tonight they face hardened killers not the relative safety of a few wild pigs. “A turban too might better secure your hair.”

Devasena laughs, this time a horrible jangling sound, equal parts old bitterness and new wrath. “But then who would possibly know that I am a Princess, completely unsuitable for the war at hand?” And that, Baahu realizes, is rather the point. He thinks of Devasena when he first saw her, hair and jewelry swinging as she fought five men with no protection and rages to know that a single error born of her Ministers’ ego could cost her.

“If you take the bow you can pick them off from above,” he says and withers only slightly at the fury in her gaze. 

“I do not need to be  _ protected _ ,” Devasena hisses, and Baahu thinks to say that he would stand in front of her to absorb every blow ever aimed in her direction if she would simply allow him. Instead, he pulls down his tunic and reveals the edge of the armor he always wears as a precaution, the easy habit of a career soldier. 

“At least for now, let my armor take the blows,” he says. “And besides, your arrows are faster than mine.” 

A new light enters her eyes as the Princess nods and grabs for her bow. “Tell me how to shoot multiple arrows and I will agree.” 

Baahu frowns slightly and walks to the ledge of the window and jumps. Once on the ground, he calls out. “Four fingers instead of two, turn your wrist outwards and release. But you would waste too many arrows practicing now so stay with what you know best.” 

Devasena’s response is too low for Baahu to make out but by then the Pindaris have heard him and seen the sword in his hand.

The first attack is swift, and the Pindari fighting style is brutal. Devasena’s sword is lighter in Baahu’s hand than he would prefer but it is sharper and better maintained than any Pindari’s, slicing through enemy flesh like butter. He kicks and seven men fall, he slashes and five of them bleed. There are sounds of arrows taking out the Pindari’s that Devasena’s sword cannot reach, a deluge as Baahu cuts his way through the bandits on his way to the center of the palace. 

There is a moment of rest before the second wave, and Baahu takes the opportunity to glance up at Devasena who stands tall above him, motioning for servants to leave and hide as she replenishes her quiver with the arrows one frightened woman brings her.

“My brother always called me paranoid but I knew leaving arrows around the palace would be useful someday,” she calls down, and Baahu thinks he has never seen a vision more beautiful. Then, before his very gaze, her brow furrows, her eyes widen and her hand reaches back to grab for arrows. Baahu follows her line of vision and sees what she does, a group of six Pindari that have noticed the Princess picking off their soldiers from the confines of the palace balcony and decide to attack from there. 

“Four fingers?” Devasena calls out, and Baahu has never felt a fear quite like this, one that steals the voice from his throat as he opens his mouth to scream. It took him six weeks to master the skill that Devasena is wagering her life on executing perfectly her first attempt. 

The Princess plucks three arrows from her quiver and lines them up with her four fingers. “Wrist turned out,” she shouts, walking backward in order to get enough distance to make the shot. She pulls, and Baahu finally knows what it means to be so frightened that he must resist the urge to close his eyes. 

She shoots. Three arrows speed forward and reach their target. Devasena grabs three more arrows with her four fingers, turns her wrist, pulls back and shoots again. All six Pindari fall to the ground. 

When she turns to Baahu, triumphant yell ricocheting off the Palace walls, Baahu knows that no one can possibly love a person more than he does her. In his euphoria, he forgets his origins, his history, his status. For the first time in his entire life, Baahu looks out into the world as simply a man in love with a woman made worthy of her hand by the love he carries for her in his heart. He knows her mind, her desires, her fears and he loves them all, a love so thick that he feels he should be drowning. 

Baahu looks up at the Princess Devasena, and he wonders if she will have him after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	10. DEVASENA

She’d done it! She’d fired not two, but  _ three  _ arrows at once, and her opponents had fallen before her. Amarendra had taught her how, as she’d known he must, and she knows that she was right before: having achieved this, she could achieve anything.

Devasena is drunk on satisfaction, dazed with love, and in comparison the danger of a horde of Pindari is hardly daunting. Her heart beats a happy rhythm in her chest even as she passes Pindari corpses while descending the stairs to the courtyard; for the first time she understands why Mother Durga is said to roar with laughter on the battlefield.

Amarendra, however, appears worried enough for both of them as she approaches, and that thought sobers her. “The first advance has stopped,” is all he says, but by now Devasena knows him well enough to read his greeting in the softening of his expression when he sees her.

“Perhaps they’ve thought better of their attack,” she replies, voice determinedly casual, “now that they see how Kuntala is protected.”

By now Amarendra knows her well enough not to believe her capable of such preposterous optimism. The Pindari are stubborn--who should recognize that better than she?--and will not be dissuaded by simple defeat or debate; their onslaught will be subdued only by the sword. And now, Devasena thinks, exulting once more, her bow, as well!

Amarendra half-turns to her, face still grim. She supposes she must look all too pleased with herself, now that she’s standing so near him, but the memory of her arrows cutting down the soldiers before her is too clear in her mind. There will be thousands of them, she reminds herself irritably, not only three. But this way, at least, she will have a chance. Better that than to have to wait with Kumar Varma, Sumitra, and the other women of the household for an uncertain fate; they are stronger than she could ever be. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Devasena can see her brother and Amarendra’s father and what looks like all the officers that he has managed to rouse--too few, far too few to account for the all the Pindari who stand against him--hurrying towards them. 

Amarendra half-turns towards her. His words are a low rumble she must strain to hear, spoken quickly in the last few seconds of their solitude: “If something should happen--Princess, you should know--”

She does know, or she thinks she does, and she wants so badly to hear the words: but not now, not like this. “Tell me,” she says firmly, “after we’ve won this battle.”  _ After we’ve both survived to see it _ . 

Amarendra bows his head in acceptance, and that is all the time they have: Jayasena peers anxiously from one of them to the other, as though hoping they can reassure him that it was all due to a terrible mistake. But the spilled blood around them speaks for itself, and his shoulders sag. 

“What now?” he asks Devasena, resting a hand on her shoulder. She fights back a sudden surge of gratitude: to everyone else, she might seem disappointingly unladylike, but to her brother, she will always be his right hand and most trusted advisor. 

She bares her teeth. “We fight,” she reminds him, “to our last breath if necessary.” They may be unprepared and outnumbered, but that is no excuse for cowardice; and if they die together, at least their ancestors need not be ashamed of them.  

Amarendra, whose father is passing him his own sword, pauses in the act of unbuckling Devasena’s sword. “I do not,” he says carefully, “disagree with the Crown Princess by any means, but,” he pauses, clearly considering the best way to phrase his thoughts. “If strength of numbers does not favor us, strategy must. Are there any defenses nearby that we can use?”

He passes Devasena her sword, letting his fingers linger on hers in what can only be an apology for any presumption he might have taken. Devasena can hardly fault him for speaking the truth, but she accepts the gesture anyway. The slow steady warmth that a single touch of his still causes almost keeps her from noticing how her brother raises his eyebrows at her, his curiosity roused at last. 

She focuses on her answer to Amarendra’s question, the better to distract Jayasena. “Kuntala relies on our mountains to keep us safe, and the Pindari have already crossed that--” A sudden thought occurs to her. “The dam,” she says slowly, and then, turning to Amarendra: “The dam, the one we saw this afternoon!” (Jayasena peers at her once more, but the burst of sudden hope in her breast means she hardly cares.) “The river flooded over its walls once, years ago, and no one could go in or out of the palace until repairs had been made. But how--”

Amarendra needs no further explanation; “Father--” he says once, and the other man nods his head. 

“The usual signal when you’re ready,” he murmurs, and then he disappears off in the direction of….the cattleshed?

“We need all help available,” Amarendra tells her, noticing both her gaze and her frown. 

“That may be so,” Devasena retorts, “but that doesn’t mean I will have my people slaughtered. They’re simple cowherds, not trained to fight--”

“Which does not,” he replies, “render them incapable of it.” Before she can reply, he adds, “And you need not worry for their safety. My father will ask no service of them that they will not willingly perform for their country, and is that not their choice to make?”

“They weren’t born to be warriors,” she says sullenly. “They were born to be my responsibility. They were born for me to protect.”

“Their choices matter far more than their birth.” Amarendra’s voice is sharper than usual, but softens when he adds. “We need their help, Devasena.”

She looks down. “Very well,” she concedes at last. “And what of us?”

Amarendra rocks back on his heels. “The Pindari will have realized that an attack by stealth is unfeasible,” he says. “Instead they’ll try to overwhelm us at the front gates.”

“Then that,” Jayasena decides, “is where we shall make our stand.”

That resolved, they march together, leaving behind only one or two guards to stand as lookout. Quietly, Amarendra explains the rudimentary plan he has formed to her: “While you and the army keep the Pindari busy on the plains,” he begins, “I’ll go forward….” It seems, if anything, haphazard and hardly promising, but it is all they have. Devasena bites her lip and wonders aloud if they shouldn’t send someone to watch over the women and other noncombatants, but: “Kumar Varma is with them,” Amarendra reminds her.

She almost laughs. “Kumar?”

“He is stronger than he believes himself to be,” Amarendra says, almost chidingly, and: “Besides, he has his sister to protect. When love demands tremendous deeds, none can refuse.”

She thinks back at the outrageous actions--to wait below in battle and have to hope he makes it back safely--that he asks of her, and can only murmur: “Yes.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, and once there, find the Pindari waiting for them from their perch atop the mountain crags. It is an affront to see the sanctity of Kuntala’s ranges violated by these invaders, to look out at the mountain peaks she loves and see the enemy staring back.  _ Not for long _ , Devasena promises herself and readies her bow. 

After an instant of deliberation, the Pindari blow their horn to indicate a proposal for parley, and Devasena must laugh. More fool them to expect mercy, after all they’ve done! But to refuse them this courtesy would be to prove themselves no better than their opponents, and that dishonor is not to be endured.

A small company of Pindari trot forward, and in their midst, the man who must be their financial backer; the Pindari are notorious mercenaries, after all, and only loot and kill where they are bid by their masters. This one is stout and piggish, and utterly unfit to lead any armies: their true commander must wait behind, too wise to join his fellows in enemy territory.

Or, Devasena thinks uneasily, it is nothing more than a trap. 

The stout man clears his throat. “We have,” he begins, voice oily and odious, “no desire to cause further harm to the beautiful kingdom of Kuntala.”

He speaks of the kingdom, and leers at Devasena. Charming. She sighs, and is more than a little relieved when Amarendra paces back and forth before her, diverting the other man’s gaze.

“Then,” says Amarendra, “return the goods you have stolen from its people and surrender to its justice.”

The man laughs. “But how should we profit by that?” His eyes return to Devasena. “Pray don’t worry, Princess; under our rule, we will make your kingdom so strong it won’t need to call its women to save it.”

There is only one reply possible to such an insult, but this is more than that. When she takes aim at his forehead, she offers retaliation for every variation of that phrase she has ever heard. The thud of his body hitting the ground is perhaps the most satisfying sound she has ever heard.

Amarendra whirls around to gape at her, eyes wide, and as explanation, she mutters: “You showed them your back,” and smirks.

The remaining Pindari watch her warily, having identified her as a source of peril rather than a potential prize, and dryly, Jayasena remarks: “I gather negotiations have come to an end.”

Amarendra frowns. “Remember,” he calls, “fall back at the sound of the conch!”

The world consists only of this: the rasp of her brother and their men drawing their swords, the implacable thud of the enemy’s advance, and Amarendra’s whisper in her ear, low and urgent and pleading: “Be safe—“

And then the battle begins in earnest.

Devasena only pauses to string three arrows on her bow, but by the time she looks up again, Amarendra is lunging forward, faster than any other man ought to be able to. She has only a minute to ponder this before Pindari appear before her, and she releases her arrows before striding forward.

The battle proves not so one-sided as their opponents must have expected. Kuntalans revere Krishna and the Mother Goddess alike, both gentle and benevolent but ruthless on the battlefield, and they share their prowess with their divine patrons. Devasena swings and ducks and shoots by turns, catching just enough glimpses of her brother and her lieutenants to be assured of their safety. She hasn’t the time to consciously worry about Amarendra, but that doesn’t mean her limbs don’t want to go limp with relief at the sound of a conch echoing from the dam. If he were injured, he wouldn’t have the strength to call, she reasons—and then remembers his instructions.

“Fall back!” she orders, gesturing to all those she sees, and obediently, her soldiers retreat. 

The conch sounds again, one last warning, and Devasena has only a second to wonder where Amarendra might be before there is a terrible crack and the world before them is subject to the river’s fury. The Pindari wash away, as though the waters themselves objected to their presence, and they join their victims under the waves.

Jayasena laughs with delight, and the soldiers cheer, but Devasena cannot share their joy, not until Amarendra reappears. Surely, she tries to convince herself, surely he wouldn’t do anything so desperate and foolish as sacrificing himself—not when they had made silent promises to each other—not when they had only just found each other—

There is a clamor on the stairs, and Devasena turns so quickly her hair threatens to tumble from its best bun; but it is only Sumitra come to take care of the wounded, with Amarendra’s father accompanying her as escort. Devasena has been trained to care for minor wounds herself, and now, a little ashamed, she bends down beside Sumitra to do what she can.

A quiet satisfied exhale from Amarendra’s father is her only warning, but that is more than enough. Devasena finishes tying her last bandage and staggers to the wall, her heart in her throat, just in time to see a fallen tree come floating down the flooded river.

Amarendra clings to it, grinning at her, and climbs up to join them atop the wall with easy grace. He looks to her first, as she does him, and she knows he must be taking stock of any injuries she has as she does his: a cut over the nose, a bruise on the skin, a scrape over the knuckles but fortunately nothing irreparable. He must be equally satisfied, because his expression turns affectionate from appraising, and Devasena has never, never been happier. 

“Like gods you appeared to save us!” Jayasena booms from behind her. “We will never be able to repay you.”

Amarendra’s father murmurs something indistinct about it being no more than their duty, but Jayasena will not be satisfied. He darts a discreet glance at Devasena, and quickly, she nods her permission.

“Surely there must be something you want,” Jayasena says, directing his offer pointedly at Amarendra. “Anything at all. Name it and she—er, it, shall be yours.”

Her brother may be many things, but tact eludes him just as it does her. Devasena blushes but does not look away from Amarendra, who swallows but turns to Jayasena, determination writ large across his face.

“I would dare ask, Your Majesty, for—“

And that is when a hawk screams, shrill and sudden, and tumbles from the sky to land on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Much of the Pindari-Baahu-Devasena confrontation derives from [this deleted scene](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5lj4bh) from _Baahubali 2_ : if anyone is good enough at lip-reading to have an idea of what they're actually saying, we'd love to know!  
> *Also, we've no idea if anyone is even still reading this, but if so: we love your comments! And your support and encouragement for us to stop being lazy and actually finish this story in a timely fashion :P


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